While waiting for the weekend re-broadcast of "General Hospital" (yeah, I said it!) this commercial came on and I wanted to share it with you. I think if you come here every now and again it's because you find me mildly amusing and for that, I thank you.
Think of this as a little valentine to you.
On my visit to obtain the prompt for the week, there was this note on the Sunday Scribblings door:
Sorry, folks. Meg and I are both out of town this weekend and will not be able to put up links -- I think this is the first time in 80 weeks that we've both been traveling on the same weekend! We will be back next week with a great prompt. Hope you all have a fabulous weekend and we'll see you soon!
[Update -- It's 5 am and I'm heading to the airport & saw your comments -- aw, you guys, I feel bad! If you want to use "Sorry" as a prompt, I promise to post the links on Monday!]
My first thought was: "okay, see ya next week", because there's still that 8 year old with the potato inside of me, and there was a "getting out of homework" feel to it that was cool. Then the adult part of me piped up that no one is making me do this every week, I do it for me, and to some extent for you, my fabulous readers. I went back to Sunday Scribblings and noticed that lots of other people had reached the same conclusion; they were writing anyway, and later on there was indeed, a prompt-"Sorry".
What usually happens for me with Sunday Scribblings is something immediately pops into my head, all wordy and wanting to be written, so I sleep on it and the next day something else pops up, something not quite so full of itself and that's what gets into print. But, "Sorry?", I couldn't get anything positive with that, and for some reason I feel like I need to be positive. Not need to be really, but am...so I need to be.
So...I wake up today thinking about "Sorry", and I'm in a good mood just because I'm me and I realized that Sorry--I'm not.
There's been some fun stuff going on in the blogosphere, or at least the little portion of it I circle. It's the newest thing that all the cool kids are doing.
My friend Josie of Picking Up Pieces sort of started it; she was interviewed by another blogger and enjoyed it so much she decided to extend an invitation to her readers to be interviewed if they wanted. Quite a few brave souls rushed blindly into the abyss of Josie's questioning and lived to tell the tale.
See, Josie's a real curious sort and she's pretty damned intuitive and bright; she asked these folks questions that sometimes had them pulling their raw feelings out for all to see. I respect these people immensely because that's not always an easy thing to do, but they stepped up to the plate with grace.
For me reading the interviews was kind of like the feeling you might get when contemplating getting on a roller coaster: you think it might be fun, but you're scared. I couldn't step up to the plate for the 5 question interview that Josie was meting out but when she started One Question Wednesday I thought I might be able to handle that. You get to ask one question but you've got to answer one in return.
So, without further ado here is Josie's one question for me, and because I just have to be different here it is on Friday:
I love your "I'm not that girl anymore" byline. Why aren't you, when and how did that change?
That's an interesting question and if I think about it I probably haven't been that girl for some time, years even. It's a thought that fleshes itself out for me more and more as I write these posts. The first thing I thought of when coming up with that name for my blog is my body isn't the same, some of this I elaborated on in my very first post. It's more than that though, my thoughts aren't the same, my desires aren't the same. I think I'm more and less concerned about me, if that makes any sense. I am more compassionate than I was but at the same time I know that the martyr, everyone's-needs-before-mine state of being doesn't really help anyone.
When I was younger, in my teens and twenties I didn't have the best self esteem, though you couldn't tell that by just looking at me. I was a pretty girl but I didn't own that; I had relationships with men who were unworthy of me, friendships that didn't sustain me, toxic familial relationships, I was not cognizant of my own power to change these things. Probably all that began to change when I really started working on my spiritual beliefs in about 1989.
As I became more aware of myself and my self worth, I was able to really connect with people and make very satisfying friendships. A very dear friend died in 1995, and my love for him propelled me to do volunteer work which really fed my soul, introduced me to my SO, and helped me to "get over myself".
My relationship with my SO helped me to learn to stay put in relationships. I grew up with the idea that perfect couples never fought or disagreed ergo, if I am in a relationship and it doesn't feel good then it must not be perfect. This is the first relationship where I've been able to disagree, talk it out, and be happy.
I am learning things about myself all of the time, seeing other ways I'm not that girl anymore, but it's okay because I really like the woman I've become.
Hello Friends, as promised, The Potato Story.
I grew up in what is now known as South Los Angeles, South Central or Watts depending on which channel is reporting the news. The area is now primarily known for being dangerous, a place that you have to be extra aware of your surroundings but when I was a child that area was a regular, integrated, working class neighborhood. Children could and did go outside to play. We'd skate, bike, play at each other's homes, and the way you'd know it was time to go home was that it was either dark or, your mom would come outside and yell for you.
I was about 8 years old when my mother told me that potatoes could grow from a single potato and I was beyond amazed. I liked potatoes and was curious how this miracle would occur. One day my mother gave me a potato, we inserted two toothpicks and submerged the bottom of the spud in a glass of water.
Then we waited. After a long time (actually about 7-10 days) there were roots in the water and my mom said I could take the potato outside and plant it in the ground. We didn't have a garden in the back yard but there was a large cement area which was probably a mini parking lot. The cement area was bordered on one side by hibiscus plants, on another side there was a chain link fence covered with morning glories, four small garages and a large dirt mountain by the garages. The dirt mountain is where I planted my potato and I couldn't wait to see what would happen.
Then I waited. I would race home after school, change out of my green plaid jumper and watch Dark Shadows, after that I went out to the dirt mountain. I would run out to the mound
and examine the location where the potato was buried. Actually, I would just stand over the area and stare. I would stare and wonder how I would know when the potato was ready. Had it been long enough? No, not yet. Then, I'd get on all fours, get my face very close to the ground and look for something, anything that looked different. Nothing. Disappointed, I'd go back into the house for the evening.
This process went on forever with very little variation. After an eternity in child time (real time about 3-4 weeks) I could stand it no longer. Surely enough time had passed. Think about how children process the passage of time; you know, "are we there yet?"
I had no idea how long the potato should remain planted and I don't remember asking my mother how long it would be. All I knew for certain, with the wisdom of my 8 year-old mind, was that it had been a really long time and I had to know if there were any potatoes!
So I dug it up. Once the first little handful of dirt was tossed to the side I couldn't stop. I kept digging with my little toy shovel and my hands until I'd unearthed the potato, roots and all and examined it. I looked at it and to my surprise there were little, Barbie-doll size potatoes at the ends of some of the roots. I took one off of the roots and bit into it, it tasted like a potato. It was a real, honest-to-goodness potato!
I looked at the potato in my hands, and all the roots with the little potatoes on them and a vague sense of disappointment descended on me. I thought, with the true wisdom of my 8 year-old mind: "I bet if I'd left it in longer, that would have been better".
The metaphor for my life was revealed to me at an early age and to be honest, I wish that I could say I've learned from it. My lack of patience, my inability to leave the potato in the ground long enough has been one of the major challenges of my life.
I know that in a lot of ways I'm not that girl anymore...
...but in some ways I still am.
It seems like only yesterday that I wrote my first post explaining what "I'm not that girl anymore..." meant. I've written a number of posts since that first one and you have been kind enough to join me in my journey, for that I thank you.
Being two months old in the blog world is interesting; I've made some wonderful new blog friends and learned a bit more about the blogosphere but I'm still not old enough to be considered a serious blogger. You see, this time period that I'm in separates the girls from the women (or boys from men if you prefer) because it determines who may stick around for the long haul.
For me, while it's extremely frustrating because as I mentioned recently I'd like to monetize my blog a bit (and you can't in many places until you're three months old), it's probably just as well because the one thing I lack is patience.
Tomorrow I will tell you a story that is probably the defining experience in my life, the overall metaphor if you will. My very close friends know it, and tomorrow so will you. Tune in tomorrow for: "The Potato Story"
Free
Clipart or Photos: www.ace-clipart.com
Do you ever wish you could see through the eyes of another person? Ever wish you could see what they see? What makes them wear certain things, do their makeup a certain way, wear their hair in a certain style? Well I sure do, but because I'm not that girl anymore, I try not to pass judgment on the appearance of others.
But hell, I'm only human, and not blind.
So.... I'm tooling down the aisles of the grocery store buying some accompaniments for dinner when this woman passes my line of vision, she's wearing a very colorful sleeveless dress, has full wavy hair, and high heeled sandals. I couldn't see her face but I could tell by her overall body she was in her thirties or forties, well good for her, you go girl! She was definitely strutting her stuff. I always like to see women in my age range dressed well-it gives me hope!
Anyway, as luck would have it we both end up at the cash register at the same time, she is just ahead of me. The woman hands her card to the cashier and I get a glimpse of this long talon that is on her thumb, you know the type, it curves under and sort of forms a hook. I take a look down at the floor and sure enough, the toe nails are long and curving off the end of the shoes.
Now, I turned in my fashion police badge a while ago, but goodness! This is where I want to see through another person's eyes, what is it that makes someone see bear claws at the end of their feet and think: "I'm bringing sexy back"?
The talon on the thumb would seem to indicate the whole hand is like that, which just makes my mind work overtime. What does she do for a living with those nails? Can she type? Use an adding machine, use a telephone? a pdh? AND what about the bathroom?
I'll tell you that I live for artificial nails, the glue on kind, they're pretty and pretty cheap, and I can wear them when I want to. Those nails are not very long, but they can get dirt underneath them and I just pop them off after a week and let my natural nails breath. So if I can get dirt underneath my removable nails, what's underneath those super long fingernails? Ewww!
